


Escape Strategies

by Isagel



Category: Spy Game (2001)
Genre: Bondage, Dominance/submission, Handcuffs, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is <i>his</i> operative, and there are some things Nathan would never let anyone else teach him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape Strategies

Nathan has never put much store in the paraphernalia of intelligence work. Cameras and radios and the ever more advanced selection of surveillance equipment are useful tools of the trade, but he is an old-school type of spy, and he doesn’t believe in relying on them. The Company has courses where Bishop will learn all he needs to know about their toys and gadgets, the preferred toys and gadgets of their enemies. What Nathan teaches him - one on one, hour after hour and day after day of carefully gauged private lessons - are the intangible skills, the art and craft of thinking like a spy. It doesn’t require props.

Though there are of course exceptions.

Tom is _his_ operative - it’s better if Bishop doesn’t fully realize it, but at least fifty percent of his lessons are designed to help him live and breathe that knowledge, just as he will breathe the layout of every room, the assessment of every threat - and there are some things Nathan would never let anyone else teach him.

He lays the handcuffs out on his desk, one pair after the other, click after click of metal on wood.

"Russian," he says. "East German. British. US law enforcement standard issue. Israeli." Bishop is lounging back in his chair - loose posture, long legs sprawled out - but his gaze tracks and records, storing the information away. So far he’s never had to be told anything twice. Nathan pauses, picks up the American cuffs again, the ones Bishop will most likely be equipped with himself, when needed. "Let’s start with these."

He steps around the desk, around the visitor’s chair. Stops just behind Tom’s back.

"Give me your hands.”

There is maybe a heartbeat of hesitation, then Tom reaches his arms towards him, the light blue cotton of his shirt stretching tight over his triceps as his hands come together behind the back of the chair. He doesn’t look around.

Nathan snaps the cuffs in place around his wrists. Leaves his hands there for a moment longer than necessary, a steadying touch next to the rings of metal. Bishop’s head tips forward, just a fraction of an inch, exposing the pale skin at the nape of his neck between the unkempt strands of his hair.

Nathan squeezes once and lets go, shifts away to sit back against the desk, fingers curved around its edge.

Tom looks up at him.

“I didn’t know you had to be Houdini to work for the CIA,” he says. His tone is flippant, signaling nothing but calm and vague amusement. Nathan gives him points for not moving to test the restraints at all. Few people can override that instinct.

“You’ve had lock picking lessons, haven’t you? You’ve got the contents of this office at your disposal. You should be more than capable of freeing yourself, given enough time.”

Tom doesn’t actually look around - in fact the line of his gaze doesn’t visibly change at all - but Nathan taught him this, and he has no difficulty seeing how he scans the room for usable tools, cataloguing his options.

“How long have I got?”

Nathan shrugs.

“As long as it takes. I have no trouble leaving you here over night, if it should come to that.”

Tom tilts his head, worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

“And if I seduce you out of the keys?”

Even if they hadn’t already had sex, on more than one occasion, Nathan would have known to expect this. Adaptable sexuality is one of the traits that made him single Tom out in the first place, as useful in this line of work as his physical beauty. Still, being able to anticipate the choice of strategy doesn’t mean that he’s immune to the spark of suggestion in Tom’s eyes, to the way his whole body is suddenly an open invitation.

He keeps his voice matter-of-fact.

“Then you’re assuming that I _have_ the keys.”

Tom smiles, the small quirk of his full lips that is at once innocent and purely, joyfully wicked.

“Only one way to find out,” he says, and gets up from the chair.

It’s an awkward movement, almost graceless, the cuffs making it hard for him to stand up without getting tangled in the chair, but there is nothing awkward nor graceless about the way he folds himself to the floor, sinking down to kneel at Nathan’s feet.

Nathan stays still, impassive, letting Tom run with his chosen course of action. Offering neither assistance nor obstacle.

Tom leans in, rubs his face across Nathan’s crotch. His cheek stroking the length of Nathan’s cock through the fabric of his pants.

Slowly, again; his body carefully bent forward at the waist, precariously balanced to make up for the trapped hands that can’t support it, but the caress is eager, greedy, unreservedly sensuous. By the time he turns his face to press his parted lips against the cockhead outlined beneath the corduroy, Nathan is already more than half hard.

"Hm, okay," Tom says. Glances up through the fringe of his hair, a flash of pale blue like the streak of Berlin sky above the rooftops outside. The playfulness and calculation in his gaze make Nathan’s breath catch. "This is going to be a bit tougher than I thought."

"You could always start looking for paperclips," Nathan says, but Tom already has his teeth around the button on his fly.

It takes him a couple of tries, a few muffled curses as he shifts his grip, but he does get it open. The zipper goes down in a slow, measured slide that is nothing if not practiced - the boy scout innocence isn’t an act, but it would be a mistake to confuse it with inexperience.

Another tug of teeth, this time on the waistband of Nathan’s underwear, and his cock springs free. Slaps against Tom’s temple, and Tom makes a noise deep in his throat, twists to find it with his mouth.

He drags his lips along the side of it, down to the base and all the way back up to the tip, parts them to lick at the join between shaft and head, press his tongue against the sensitive spot where it counts the most. With his hands behind his back, it’s sloppy, imprecise, but the roughness of it makes Nathan’s fingers clench around the edge of the desk, the wood digging into his flesh as Tom shifts, scrambles on the floor to find the right angle, find the right position to take Nathan’s cock into his mouth and really go down. Determined, and that’s another reason why Nathan picked him, the way he sets his mind to something and doesn’t let go. Translated to sex, it’s a quality that could damn near drive him out of his mind. Perhaps only more so because it’s a trait they both share.

He didn’t want to let go of Tom after Da Nang, is binding him closer with every passing day. He isn’t fool enough to imagine that the ties are all one way - it’s getting harder and harder to consider severing them.

Tom slides his mouth down Nathan’s cock, the heat and wetness of him wrapped around it now, pushes forward as far as he can and holds there, his eyes falling closed as his cheeks hollow out with suction. Nathan reaches for him, cups his hand around the back of his head. Tom moans, the sound more vibration than noise, rippling over Nathan’s skin. He leans back into Nathan’s grip, his nostrils flaring wide when he finds it unmoving, snatches for breath before he dives down again. Impossibly deeper than before, sucking harder, and Nathan squeezes the nape of his neck; hears him, _feels him_ , growl in response - purr, almost - and Nathan’s hips stutter upwards, his body arcing off the desk with the need to slam all the way inside. Tom makes a startled noise and swallows, keeps swallowing as Nathan comes and comes down his throat, not letting him go.

In the end, his cock slips from Tom’s mouth, and he sits there, on the edge of his embassy desk, shivering with aftershocks, watching as Tom licks his lips, tilts his head under his palm as if he wants to be petted. He almost forgets to intercept Tom’s hand - Tom’s no longer cuffed hand - when it comes up to touch him.

Almost.

He catches hold of Tom’s wrist, stopping his hand in the air between them. Reaches behind him on the desk for another pair of cuffs to replace the ones now lying on the floor.

“Good,” he says, slapping the cuff onto the wrist he’s holding. “Now, let’s try the Russian ones. And no, the keys to these are not in my pocket.”

“Damn,” Tom says, grinning up at him. “I’m not nearly as good with paperclips.”

Nathan winds his fingers in the chain of the cuffs, uses it to tug Tom to his feet.

“Don’t worry,” he says, returning the grin. “You will be.”

As he brings his arms around Tom’s body to close the cuffs behind his back, he wonders which one of them really has better odds of escaping.

He sure as hell hopes he will never have to find out.


End file.
